After Bermondsey and the gym, I showed up to labor for cash, sadly accepting of the fact that I would not hear the final, lengthy bleating of the shofar as the Gates of Heaven are closed for business or the seals on the books of humans' fates are hot waxed or, you know, whatever. And then, just like in the religious movies, there was, unexpectedly at the toil site, additional labor. And I suddenly realized I might just get to hear the rabbi make like Diz after all.

Typically, however, I hung around maybe a little too long, fearing I would get paid less if I went. And then . . . I bolted. 

Hustled through crowded Leicester Square, pushing others aside to get to the tube, walking, then running from Warren Street toward the Central Synagogue off Great Portland Street, cursing myself the entire way for lingering in search of a few extra bucks.

Meanwhile, Jews were heading in the opposite direction, which worried me. And on top of that, I was sweating and coarsely dressed as I arrived at a synagogue that had been catering to men in expensive gray suits since sometime in the nineteenth century.

I flashed my ticket. There was confusion.

They let me in.

I rushed to the sanctuary. And . . .

The shofar was well and truly blown. I'd made it in time.

I may, in fact, have been touched by an errant drip of hot wax from the hand of God.

Or a drop of my own sweat.

Either way, I returned to my toil.

And was paid in full.